


Chasing the Sun

by Apetslife



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Pining, Sibling Incest, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-20
Updated: 2008-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:41:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apetslife/pseuds/Apetslife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Supernatural Kink/Cliche challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing the Sun

In the thirteen months since they killed the demon, Dean has seen Sam exactly three times. Once because he was in the area hunting a black dog, close enough to Stanford to justify a quick visit, even with gas at $3.10 a gallon. It had been nice seeing Sam in his off campus apartment, filled with books and papers and comfortably worn furniture. Once was for Dean's own 30th birthday; Sam had harassed him by cell phone until he'd promised to drive in for a celebration, Winchester-style. The hangovers had been epic. And once when Sam had actually come to help out with a particularly nasty haunting up in Oregon, which Dean had been fortunate enough to run across during Stanford's spring break, when Sam had some free time.

Sam's back to his beloved "normal" and even though they talk on the phone a few times a week (and Sam leaves a lot of messages), these days Dean is happy to leave him to it. It's what he'd been fighting for, after all, what the whole damn quest had been about. Sam's safe, finishing his undergrad degree, getting ready for law school. Dean's back to hunting, the only thing he knows how to do. Things are back the way they should be.

So, even though Dean is bleeding pretty heavily, from his hip and thigh and side, he hesitates for a long moment before pounding on Sam's door, leaning against the jamb, suddenly sick and dizzy with the rush of adrenaline leaving his body now that he’s here. He doesn't want to bring this back to Sam's doorstep. Not anymore. But he has nowhere else to go.

"Who's--DEAN." Sam looms in the door, late afternoon sun illuminating his face, and Dean manages to lift his head and smile weakly, arm cradling his bleeding side, pressing against the long slash. "Holy shit." Sam sounds utterly shocked.

"Holy shit is right," Dean answers, his voice a thread of sound as he blurrily focuses on Sam's face. He blinks. Sam has a goatee. "What kind of pansy shit is that on your fa--" Like a curtain coming down, everything goes dark, and Dean drops off the cliff, into complete unconsciousness.

When he wakes up, he's still hurting but it's distant, he feels almost numb, and he's in a bed in a small, quiet room that he recognizes as Sam's even though he can't quite focus his eyes. _Sam must've got the med kit out of the car,_ he thinks with muzzy, fond approval. There's morphine in there, and syringes and all kinds of good stuff, and from the tight, hot feeling in his side and leg, he's pretty sure Sam has taken advantage of him being out cold to stitch him up, too. He can hear voices, low and indistinct, and his drug-hazed mind circles around that fact curiously, wondering who Sam can possibly be talking to.

"Sam," he croaks, then clears his throat and tries again. "SAM!"

The murmuring stops, and before too long there's a big dark shape next to the bed, and it's Sam, and something tight inside Dean relaxes just a little. Sam's here, Sam'll watch his back and give him time to heal. He smiles again, then winces as he feels his dry lips crack.

"Water?" he tries, straining to see the expression on Sam's face in the dim room. Sam rustles around for a moment and then Dean's being lifted gently up, those big strong hands easing him into a sitting position so he can drink. He grits his teeth against the pain, sharp again, but it's all worth it when he gets the first cool drink of water. Suddenly dying for it, he gulps the water down, letting it spill over his chin.

"You've lost a lot of blood, you're dehydrated," Sam says, and moves into the light a little, so Dean can see his face, tight and worried and more than a little pissed, it looks like. "Goddammit, Dean, what did you take on this time?"

"Would you believe there's a witch in Carmel with a black panther as a familiar?" Dean holds out the now-empty glass, begging wordlessly for more, and Sam fills the glass from a pitcher and hands it back.

"Yeah, I'd believe it," Sam sighs. "And you decided to take them on alone because...?" There's a definite leading question there, an expectation that Dean will answer him. Dean, drinking greedily again, just tips a shoulder in a shrug.

"Didn't know how big the thing was," he exhales on a breath, almost satisfied by this second glass. "It was just a damn witch."

"Just a damn witch that almost killed you," Sam says, sharp and snippy, and Dean grins, leaning back against the pillow.

"Yeah, but she didn't, did she? I'm still here and she's toast. Just how it should be."

Sam pulls a disgusted face, made even more obvious by that froofy little goatee he's got framing his mouth, and Dean can't help but stare at it. "Dude," he starts, "I know Dad never shaved all that regular, but he still wasn't _that_ bad an example. Why the hell do you have a goatee?"

Sam stares at him like he's crazy, then shakes his head. "You show up on my doorstep, bleeding out, beat to hell, I've gotta give you about a hundred stitches, and you're giving my shit about my _beard_? Seriously, Dean, you're just--"

"Sam?" It's a male voice, from the door, and Dean goes tense in a heartbeat, head swinging to track this new presence, even as Sam's hand lands on his shoulder and he says,

"Easy, Dean. This is James."

"James," Dean says, like he's testing out the name. "Could you turn on a goddamn light in here so I don't feel like just anybody could sneak in on me?" He knows he sounds sharp, but who the fuck is this James person?

Someone hits a light switch and Sam goes to stand by this guy, James, who Dean still can't quite believe Sam is letting in his room, with Dean all screwed up on the bed like this, helpless and all.

"James, this is my brother Dean," Sam introduces with that _tone_ he always uses when he's introducing Dean to someone new, and Dean spares a moment to scowl at him before looking more closely at James.

James's head only comes up to about Sam's shoulder; not too strange, considering that Sam is a great big freak of nature. He's slim but not skinny, well dressed, blond, handsome in a soft way. Maybe a study partner, Dean thinks, and then Sam puts his arm over James's shoulder and stares straight at Dean, his jaw set and something new and strange in his eyes. "Dean, this is my boyfriend, James."

 _BOYFRIEND?_ Dean's aware that he's gaping kinda like a fish, but he can't seem to stop. That look gets stronger on Sam's face, then it closes like a book and Sam just looks blank.

"You should rest," he says quietly. "We're gonna finish eating, yell if you need anything, okay?"

"It's really nice to meet you, Dean," James says in a soft tenor voice, and as far as Dean can tell, he actually seems sincere. "I'm sorry about the accident, that's terrible."

"Yeah," Dean chokes out, finally finding his voice again. "You too." Then Sam is tugging James out of the room, and Dean collapses back into the pillows, staring straight up, mind a whirling jumble of confusion.

He drifts in and out of exhausted sleep, waking once to what he thinks are raised voices, Sam's saying "I wasn't going to LIE," and a lower, mumbled response. He knows that Sam comes in to check on him a few times, can feel a hand on his face checking for fever, swallows pills when they're pushed into his mouth, senses the rush of air when the door opens and closes, but he never comes fully awake. His body has finally shut down, demanding rest so he can heal.

When he actually wakes up next, he can sense immediately that the house is empty around him. Wryly grateful for years of honed hunting instincts, he inches himself to the edge of the bed, blinking in the light streaming in through the huge windows, groaning as his movement pulls stitches and strained muscles. He hunches over himself as he gets to his feet, moving like an old man, sore and stiff and awkward as he shuffles to the bathroom. He takes a leak, washes his hands, stares at his own face in the mirror. Hollowed, stubble-darkened cheeks, red rimmed eyes, pale as a ghost...yeah, maybe Sam'd had reason to be worried last night.

An achingly slow tour of all four rooms of the apartment confirms that he's definitely alone, it's late morning, and Sam left him a note saying he was at class, would be back before three, that Dean should eat something and get more rest. Dean frowns at the note, but looks in the fridge, and builds himself a quick sandwich, bringing it and the carton of milk back to bed with him.

Damn right he's eating in Sam's bed. It serves Sam right, for being secretly gay and not telling Dean. There's a twinge in the vestigial remnants of Dean's conscience, reminding him that he hasn't been exactly honest with Sam about his own flexibility when it comes to bed partners, but he stamps that down ruthlessly. He's never had a _boyfriend,_ or anything like that. And as he slides into Sam’s bed, carefully carefully, he doesn’t think of the reason he’s only seen Sam three times, the real reason he’s stayed away

***

Sam gives him more morphine when he pulls his stitches trying to tie his own shoelaces that afternoon. Dean always feels more vulnerable when he’s not dressed, and right now, he wants all the protection he can get. Even the long afternoon nap hadn’t helped the restless tumble of thoughts in his mind. Sam walks in with a book bag over his shoulder, sees Dean in the kitchen with a dishtowel pressed to his bleeding hip, snorts, and goes for the medicine kit. Dean submits meekly to the shot, to the stitching, to Sam’s scolding. He feels off-balance and strange, and by the time Sam’s tying off the last knot, he’s giving Dean wary looks.

“Dude, what’s up with you?” he finally blurts, standing to wash his hands, leaving Dean on the bed to pull up his shorts. “Last time you were this quiet this long, you had laryngitis. That witch didn’t curse you with anything funky on her way out, did she?”

“No, I’m okay,” Dean shakes his head, rolling very carefully to his back so he can see Sam through the open door of the bathroom. “Just sore,” he admits, and even that’s hard to say. His head is full of questions, arguments, demands that he knows he doesn’t have a right to make, not anymore. “And I’m still a little freaked out by the fact that you have a goatee.” He can see Sam’s eyes roll, his grin, his bright delighted laugh, and something inside him eases.

“I think you need to get over this weird fear you have of facial hair,” Sam comments, running wet hands through his hair, pushing it back from his face, before coming back to sit on the bed, still grinning. “I figured you’d be giving me the third degree about James, but oh no, you’re still freaking out about a stupid beard.”

”You said it was stupid, not me,” Dean smugs, inching over to give Sam a little more space, not wanting him to leave. “I just think it’s FUGLY.”

Sam rolls his eyes so hard Dean worries about him straining a muscle or something, and shakes his head. “I come out of the closet and you insult my goatee. That’s so…YOU.”

“What, you expected me to go all after-school special on you?” Dean scoffs, though there’s something tight in his chest again at the mention of Sam’s newfound gayness. “Validate your lifestyle choices, or whatever? Please, you gotta know me better than that.” He shifts, wincing and grabbing for his side as pain shoots through him, hot and sharp, and Sam’s right there, hand on his shoulder, easing him down again.

“Be careful,” Sam says tightly. “You really did lose a lot of blood, and I just gave you a shot of friggin’ MORPHINE, you should be unconscious right now.”

Dean feels warm and fuzzy around the edges, but definitely not unconscious, and he smiles at Sam, managing to make it only a little goofy. “Sammy, Sammy,” he chuckles. “Didn’t know you cared.”

“Of course I care, you dickwad,” Sam says, almost wearily. “I’m not the one who insisted on me going back to college. If you had someone watching your back—“ he cuts himself off, mouth tightening, and shakes his head.

“We talked about this,” Dean reminds him. “I’m totally capable of hunting alone, this is my JOB, man. This is your dream, remember? What you wanted, and now you’re doing it. It’s fucking great. Makes it all worth it.” He closes his eyes with a smile. Sam’s got his normal.

“Right,” Sam says, and there’s something tight in his voice, but Dean’s drifting and loopy and can’t be bothered to worry about it.

***

James is back again the next time Dean manages to get out of bed, sitting at the table in the tiny kitchen and eating dinner with Sam, smiling at Dean when Dean hobbles to take a seat at the table with them. He’s been trying really hard not to think about James; James doesn’t fit into his worldview, not even a little bit, and as usual, his reaction is to pretend it doesn’t exist. Works most of the time, but not when the guy’s standing there in front of him, big as life, making Sam laugh and trying to make small talk with Dean.

Dean doesn’t DO small talk, and just glares. Pretty soon James gets fidgety, then visibly nervous, and before long he’s pulling Sam out of the kitchen to talk in a low voice. Dean smiles.

When Sam comes back into the kitchen, his face is like thunder, but strangely enough, his body language says “confused” and “amused” instead of “angry.” Dean hides his bafflement by taking a huge bite of the pasta Sam had set in front of him.

“You’re being a dick,” Sam says baldly, sitting down again with a definite huff. “You’re being an absolute dick to James, even for you, and that’s pretty amazing when you think about it. I never figured you were a homophobe.” His eyes are wary, waiting.

“I’m not a homophobe!” Indignant, Dean sits up straight, then flinches with a moan when his body reminds him what a bad idea that is. “I’m not,” he mutters sullenly, once he’s gotten his breath back. “Shit, I’ve had sex with guys. I just can’t believe you’re _dating_ that little…” he waves his hands around, unable to come up with an epithet worthy of James’ obvious suckiness. “I mean, come on, Sam, he smells like perfume!”

“It’s _cologne_ ,” Sam shoots back, snappy and short. “And I know you slept with guys, that’s why I’m surprised you’re being such a screaming asshole about this.” When Dean looks at him, shocked, Sam just shrugs. “You weren’t subtle,” he says plainly. “You’re NEVER subtle.”

“Whatever,” Dean mutters, dropping his head to poke at his food again. “I still think you’re dating a wussy pansy little freakshow. You tested him for spells yet?”

“Yes, Dean,” Sam says, patiently tolerant, but he’s smiling a little and his dimple shows, and Dean’s heart gives a painful thump-THUMP in his chest, and something in his belly twists. "And this is pretty much exactly why I didn't tell you. He's a tiger in the sack." And that's it, Dean's done with this conversation, completely grossed out at the very thought. He shoves the plate away and stomps—carefully—back to bed.

One of the deeper slashes on Dean’s thigh gets infected, and Dean runs a high fever for a day and a half, burning up, unable to sleep and cranky and exhausted because of it. Sam is patient with him, bringing him water and antibiotics, cleaning the wound, listening to him rant and rave and bitch about how much this sucks. Sam doesn’t even have a television in the bedroom, and Dean can’t focus enough to read. He ends up with Sam’s laptop resting on his thighs, clicking listlessly through porn sites, too sick to even jerk off.

It only occurs to Dean later, once the fever is gone, that he has no idea where Sam’s been sleeping. He himself has been hogging the bed, after all. The thought makes him frown fiercely, and drive himself out of bed and into the shower, knees still weak and shaky as he cleans himself of the fever-sweat and grunge. By the time he’s done he’s so lightheaded he feels like he just might pass out, so his ultimate goal of getting out of Sam’s bed and his life and back on the road just has to be pushed back a little.

He HATES being sick, hates being injured. He knows he’s taking it out on Sam, a little, but he actually doesn’t see that much of Sam. Sam’s probably off fucking his little boyfriend, Dean thinks bitterly, and rolls over and punches the pillow, then howls when it pulls at his stitches yet again.

James has been avoiding him, Dean thinks, as he finally gets up and gets dressed on his fourth day at Sam’s place, finally feeling half-human again, off the painkillers and with his fever gone. He’s sore and stiff, sure, but nothing he hasn’t felt before. He takes the antibiotics Sam leaves out for him every day, actually makes the bed, and starts to wander around the apartment, feeling a little stir-crazy.

He’s in the small living room, looking at the couch (and thinking that this must be where Sam’s been bunking down, though it looks awful short for Sam), when he realizes what’s missing from the apartment. He walks around again, eyes sharp, now, studying. He riffles through Sam’s drawers, and raises his eyebrows when he finds condom, lube, and two different dildos. Kinky. He paws through the closet. Looks in the cupboards. And then sits on the couch, deep in thought. There’s no sign of James anywhere. No pictures of him. He’s got no clothes left here that Dean can see, no shoes, not so much as a coffee mug or a toothbrush. So, not that serious, then. Jimmy-boy seems like the type who'd move right in if given half a chance.

When Sam walks in, he seems surprised to see Dean sitting on the couch, up and around, and Dean waves the television remote at him in a friendly way. “Couldn’t stay in that bed one more minute,” he explains, though Sam hadn’t asked. “Dude, you don’t have cable.”

“Poor, working student,” Sam reminds him, rolling his eyes, dumping his book bag on the floor and flopping onto the couch next to Dean. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. Thanks,” Dean says, slowly, uncomfortable as always with genuine feeling. “Thanks for patching me up, you know. All that stuff.”

“You can always come here,” Sam answers, with that intensity that he gets that always makes Dean want to squirm and start talking about cars. “You don’t have to just come by when you’re half-dead, you know.”

“Right,” Dean says, with insincere cheer. “Hang out with you and the boyfriend, embarrass you in front of all your friends, I’m sure I’d be a hit.” Truth is, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to meet Sam’s friends. Is pretty sure that he wouldn’t have anything in common with them at all.

“You don’t embarrass me,” Sam says simply. “Well, maybe when you try to eat three hot dogs at once.” His grin shines at Dean, and Dean, helpless, feels himself smiling back. He looks away quickly, fidgeting with the remote.

“So, where’s your boytoy?” he asks, falsely casual. “Haven’t seen him around much.”

“Yeah, there’s a shock, when you practically tried to fry him with your eyes alone last time he saw you. He’s waiting till you take off again, I think.” Sam kicks back, eyes Dean sideways. “It really doesn’t bother you?”

“HE bothers me,” Dean says emphatically. “I can tell just by looking at him that he’s a turd. But like I said, I’m not a hypocrite. You want to suck dick instead of eat pussy, I don’t care.” He shifts, warm in his belly at the thought of Sam on his knees, sucking cock, before he stops thinking about it again.

“Nice,” Sam says, prissy again, his mouth tight with disapproval. “Very crude.”

“I’m a crude kind of guy, Sammy,” Dean says, smiling wide and fake.

“So there’s no reason at all for you to be a shithead to my boyfriend,” Sam continues. “Except that for some insane Dean reason you don’t like him.”

“Right,” Dean nods. “Exactly. And I don’t. You oughtta dump him, find someone better.”

“Really.” Sam sprawls back on the couch, eyes narrow, now. “You have someone in mind?”

Dean stares at him. “What, I’m your dating service now? No, assmunch, I don’t. Wow, hey, I guess you really ARE an assmunch now.” Delighted, he laughs, only stopping when Sam leans in close and threatening.

“If you weren’t a half-step out of an early grave, I would SO kick your ass right now,” Sam tells him evenly, so close they’re almost nose to nose. Dean blinks, startled, as be breathes in the smell of Sam, lets the warmth of his closeness wash over him, feels himself go very still.

 _OH._

He pulls back hastily, covering his confusion with a waving hand and a turn of the head. “Whatever, college boy, you’re soft. I can tell. You couldn’t kick my ass even now, not even if you tried.”

“Since I don’t want to have to stitch you all up again and babysit your whining ass while I do, let’s not prove it,” Sam says dryly, sitting back again. His face is a little flushed, Dean notices.

It’s just that he’s been alone for a long time, he assures himself. He misses Sam by his side, at his back, someone around that he can trust. He can get laid anytime he wants, but he hasn’t really felt like it lately, that’s all.

“Speaking of stitches,” Dean starts, almost hesitantly, “think you could take the ones in my side out? They’re itching me like a bastard. I’m pretty sure it’s done closing up.” He’s always been a fast healer.

“Let me take a look.” Sam turns sideways on the couch, making ‘take off your shirt’ motions with his hands.

“Ooh la la,” Dean laughs to hide his discomfort as he pulls his shirt off, carefully, and turns so that Sam can see the long, red gash that skips along his ribs and over onto his lower belly.

“Don’t quit your day job, your stripper routine needs work,” Sam says, voice amused, and then he’s touching Dean, hands warm on his skin. Dean shivers and drops his head, holding very still. Sam prods at the cut, and there’s an ache there but no sharp pain.

“It’s healing up good,” Sam says, sounding distracted. “No infection, this one was pretty shallow anyway. I think I can take the stitches out, probably tomorrow, there’s one spot that’s still looking a little raw.”

“But it _itches_ ,” Dean whines, feeling goosebumps follow the trail of Sam’s fingers.

“Too bad,” Sam says heartlessly. He doesn’t take his hand off Dean’s skin, though, and they sit there in silence that goes on just a little too long, before Sam takes an audible breath and sits back. Dean reaches for his shirt and pulls it back on without looking at his brother.

Another reason to get back on the road, and soon.

***

James finally shows his face again while Sam’s at the grocery, picking up food, since Dean, as he said, has eaten him pretty much out of house and home. Dean argues back that he’s replenishing lost blood, and gives him a fake credit card to go get food with. Neither of them mention the large wads of cash that Dean sends periodically from the road, the money that he wins in pool hustles and card games, the money that pays for this apartment.

Anyway, Sam’s gone, the light of avarice in his eyes, and Dean’s chilling on the couch again, scratching gently at the spots where Sam took out the stitches. He looks up at the turn of the key in the door lock, wondering if Sam had forgotten something, and then frowns as he sees James stick his head in.

The little bastard has a _key_.

“Oh, hey, Dean,” James says hesitantly. Dean has to admit that he’s pretty enough, with big eyes and long lashes, trim body. That doesn’t stop him from scowling. “I thought…Sam said he’d be home after class today?”

“He went to the grocery store,” Dean clips out, looking back at the TV. “Should be back in half an hour or so.”

“Great, I’ll wait for him. He’s got one of my books, I need it for a paper I’m writing…” James trails off as Dean tries to communicate ‘oh my god shut up I don’t give a fuck’ with every fiber of his being. He trails into the living room, sits down silently, and Dean wonders how on earth Sam can handle dating someone who’s THIS big a pussy.

“I get the feeling you don’t like me,” James says, startling Dean a little bit, who has to slightly revise his estimation of the kid’s balls. “I get that, I do, but you know, Sam didn’t choose to be homosexual.” When Dean stares over at him, James is looking scarily resolved. “It’s been scientifically proven that—“

“Sam’s bi, not gay, first off,” Dean says, breaking into what sounds like is going to be a seriously painful dissertation on gayness and the properties thereof. “And I don’t care if he screws men or women, I really don’t.”

“Oh.” James looks stunned for a moment, then regroups. “Well, I’d think you’d be a little more supportive of his choice of partner, then, considering that in today’s society there are so many obstacles—“

Once again, Dean breaks in, this time with a huge sigh. “Oh my god. Stop, you’re killing me.” He stares at James. “I bet you’re one of those activist people, aren’t you.”

“I run the Stanford chapter of GLAAD,” James answers, almost puffing up with pride. “This year we’re organizing a march on—“

“Oh my god,” Dean says again, only this time it’s more of a groan. “How the hell did Sam ever…you know what? Don’t tell me.” This guy is clearly wrong for Sam. In every possible way. He’s going to encourage Sam’s freakish sensitive girly tendencies. Before long, he’ll be analyzing interior design and making Dean put a rainbow sticker on the Impala.

Over Dean’s dead body.

He reaches around behind the couch, and pulls out the duffel bag that Sam had stashed there his first night here. It’s filled with Dean’s weapons; two machetes, an assortment of knives and handguns (some made of or loaded with silver), three shotguns (two sawed off, two filled with rock salt). Unceremoniously, he pulls out the gun oil, and dumps the contents of the bag on the coffee table.

James sucks in a horrified breath. Dean smirks, but makes sure to hide it, expertly disassembling one of the shotguns before starting to clean it with what he hopes is a certain amount of casual menace.

“I don’t know how much Sam’s told you about his family,” he starts, conversationally. “We’re a little different, us Winchesters. Has Sam ever told you that he can hit a raven in the eye with a throwing knife at forty yards?” He sights along the barrel of the gun, being sure that it points straight at James. “Bet he didn’t.”

James squeaks. Dean smiles. And continues.

“Now, I’m sure you’re a very nice guy, Jimmy,” he says, giving the stock a last loving rub with the cloth, then clicking the barrel back into place with an ominous _SNICKT_. “Good boy, active in the community. Polite to your mother.” He picks up one of the machetes, starts rubbing the sharpening rock down the edge. Scrape, scrape, scrape. James is as still and silent as a rabbit caught in the stare of a stoat. Dean can’t even hear him breathing. “But I think you should know, when you date Sam? You get all of us. And we’ll be watching you.” He bares his teeth at James, and slams the machete into the table tip-first, leaving it quivering there, standing upright.

James bolts to his feet and is out the door before Dean can do more than start to chuckle, and he changes the channel back to NASCAR, still laughing. What a pussy.

The guns really do need cleaning, so he finishes the job, humming to himself, relaxed and pleased with himself and the world.

***

Sam comes in like a thundercloud, feet heavy on the floor, blowing in through the door like the ill wind that does no one good. Dean regretfully assumes that Jimmy-boy has a cellphone, and was probably dialing Sam’s number with his shaking little fingers the moment he’d cleared the front door. In the two seconds before Sam sees him, Dean braces for impact.

“DEAN.” There’s that bellow, and Dean winces a little before settling back into his careless sprawl on the couch.

“Honey, you’re home,” he says sweetly, and then Sam’s looming in the doorway from the kitchen, brows lowered, frowning hard, clearly in the midst of an epic bitchfit. Dean smiles innocently. “What, the grocery store was out of caviar again?”

“What the HELL did you do to James?” Sam goes straight to the heart of the matter, taking a step towards Dean. “He called me, raving about how you’re a psycho, that you threatened him with a sword or something. Said he was gonna call the cops. What the fuck, Dean?”

“I don’t even HAVE a sword,” Dean says righteously, standing up to face this new and very upset version of Sammy. “He’s just oversensitive-EEP.”

One long step had brought Sam across the room and now Dean’s up against the wall, and it isn’t comfortable, not with Sam manhandling him. He’s _injured_ , Goddammit, Sam should know better. He struggles a little, winces, and subsides. “He totally blew it out of proportion,” he defends himself, a little short of breath, and Sam doesn’t relent an inch.

“You can’t just…threaten people, Dean! You can’t just wave knives at people, say crazy shit to them, just because you don’t like them!”

“Why not?” Dean half shrugs. “It made him leave, didn’t it? Message sent and received.”

“Oh my god. You are just.” Dean thinks he can hear Sam’s teeth grinding. His jaw is definitely clenched. More curious than afraid, he hangs there against the wall, waiting to see what’ll happen next. “You are IMPOSSIBLE,” Sam howls, and Dean grins.

“I know. Great, isn’t it? I know you missed me.”

Sam stares at him, almost blank with what looks like shock, and Dean gets an arm up, pats his cheek gently. “You’re better off without him,” he says honestly. “I mean, somebody who flips out like that when I’m just cleaning the arsenal? Definitely doesn’t have the strength of character you need.”

“I decide what I need,” Sam grits out, and Dean’s shaking his head before he’s even done speaking.

“Sammy, Sammy,” he says, mournfully, and then he’s cut off by Sam’s mouth. Sam’s mouth crushing into his own, hard and fast and hardly sexy at all, not with the angry tilt to Sam’s head, the way Sam’s hands are like iron on his arm and his shoulder. Dean’s mouth drops open in shock, and then Sam’s tongue is inside, touching his, gentling the kiss down, teasing him.

His mind stops. Everything stops, including maybe his heart. He’s had _that_ happen before, he knows what it feels like. He’s frozen, hanging still in an infinite moment of choice where things could go crazy in any number of directions, depending on how he reacts.

He kisses Sam back.

Hands up into Sam’s hair, swallowing the deep moan that Sam makes in the back of his throat. The kiss is still fierce, combative, the two of them battling like always except this time it’s with lips and tongues and teeth. It feels like the moment before jumping off a building, the second before diving into cold water, that moment of breathless panic and exhilaration that makes everything sharp and clear and real.

Dean shoves Sam back with one hand, panting, shaking, staring.

Sam is smirking. “Knew you were jealous,” he mutters, his hand tracing maddening little circles on Dean’s skin. “Knew it.”

“Fuck you,” Dean replies automatically, then blinks when Sam chuckles at that, eyes going wicked. “Not like that,” he says hastily, but Sam just ignores him.

“You’re such an asshole,” he says, only this time it’s fond, almost gentle. “God, I DID miss you, you jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean replies automatically.

“Not really,” Sam answers, this time, and there’s something dangerous in his face that makes Dean shiver. “You’ll see.”

“This is insane,” Dean declares. “This is so wrong I don’t even know how to describe how wrong it is.” But he’s not moving, held against the wall by Sam’s big body, letting his skin get used to the feeling of Sam stroking it.

“Yeah, well,” Sam shrugs. “Maybe now you’ll stop avoiding me, huh?”

Dean’s actual plan is to get into the Impala and drive as far away as he can get until he hits an ocean, and it must show on his face, because Sam’s hands tighten on him again. “You’re not running anymore,” Sam declares, voice hard, almost harsh. “No more running away from me.”

“You’ve, you’re, school and law school,” Dean argues weakly, now trying to get away, even though he’s still no match for Sam, not after his injuries. “Leggo of me, you freak.”

“No,” Sam says. “Not until you promise, no more running.”

“Sam,” Dean goes still, makes his voice patient, like he’s talking to a child. “You have school. Then you have law school. Then you’re gonna marry some blond chick and have about twelve kids, and that’s how it’s gonna be.”

“What if that’s not what I want?” Sam cocks his head, watching Dean like a hawk. “Sounds like it’s what _you_ think I want, but you’re wrong.” He takes a half-step back, and Dean can suddenly breathe again. “We were on the road for years, Dean. Years. You think that didn’t change me? You think I can just come back here like nothing ever happened? You got this idea in your head that after we killed the demon that I wanted to start my life here over, and yeah, I did at one point, but you wouldn’t listen when I said that had changed. You’re an idiot.”

“I am not,” Dean defends himself automatically, and the corner of Sam’s mouth quirks.

“Are too. And you still haven’t promised.”

“Saaaaaam,” Dean sighs. “Come on. This is pretty fucked up, even for us.”

“But you want it, you’ve wanted it for a long time,” Sam says, and it’s not a question. Dean drops his eyes, because Sam is right. Very right. “And I want it too. We’re adults. We’re not hurting anyone.”

“What about James?” Last-ditch and very weak effort for Dean, who still thinks James is a pussy.

“He’s not coming back,” Sam says wryly. “Shocker. I barely managed to keep him from calling the Feds and the locals and ATF and any other law enforcement agency he could think of. We didn’t hang up on good terms.”

“I should probably go, then,” Dean decides, “in case he changes his mind.”

“If you leave, I leave.” Sam’s got his stubborn face on, the one Dean has no defense against. “I’m not playing around, Dean. No more running. I’m finishing up this semester so I can graduate, and then I’m coming with you, wherever you go.”

Dean can only fight for so long against his heart’s desire. He’s denied himself so long, fought so hard, and now, when he’s being offered everything, he doesn’t even know how to accept. He just looks at Sam helplessly, ashamed that his knees feel watery and his head light.

“It’s okay, you know,” Sam says, his voice gentle now. “It’ll be good, you’ll see.”

“Sam,” Dean whispers.

“I missed you,” Sam confesses, with that naked honestly that makes Dean’s heart pound, every time. “I miss hunting with you. I wanted you to come back for me. Don’t tell me we haven’t been dancing around this for a long time, because you’re a lot of things, but you’re not a liar. Not to me.”

“You called a lot,” Dean thinks out loud, remembering.

“Yeah, asshole, and you didn’t call me back.”

“Didn’t want to intrude,” Dean admits, subdued, and then Sam’s kissing him again, this time just a touch, sweet and soft and so girly Dean is ashamed of the noise he makes, the way he yearns into it, the scrabble of his fingers over Sam’s back. Gentle where the burn scars still show, shiny and pink, against Sam’s brown skin.

“I went through your drawers,” he confesses into Sam’s mouth. “You got lube.”

“I _was_ having sex with a man, you know, you snoop,” Sam says back, and now he’s breathing heavy too, his hands roaming Dean like his body is something precious, in a way Dean’s never felt before. “Hey, you wanna?”

“Oh you Romeo, you,” Dean mocks, and Sam growls and bites at his throat, and then they’re moving, stumbling towards the bed, Sam yanking at Dean’s shirt like Dean will somehow vanish if Sam doesn’t get him naked now now now. Dean had no problem with this, gives himself up to it completely, snapping the buttons on Sam’s shirt in his own frenzy of haste.

Sam’s careful of his wounds, peeling his jeans off with a gentle touch that makes Dean throw back his head and groan through gritted teeth. He lays back on the bed, propped up only by his elbows, and watches Sam strip through hooded eyes, trying to keep his breathing under control. He’s panicking, so turned on it hurts, all at once, and it’s a lot for him to handle.

Then Sam’s naked, on the bed with him, and rolling them over in a half-familiar tumble of limbs, arms and legs tangling like a wrestling match, only more naked. And with Sam kissing him again, which shorts out Dean’s brain completely. Even the ache in his leg and side is vague, distant, unimportant next to the shocking pleasure of Sam’s cock rubbing against his own, the slide of all that skin against his body, the way Sam’s hair feels in his hands.

Dean’s always been a sensualist, he knows that, PRIDES himself on it. And nothing has ever felt as good as Sam.

By the time Sam kisses down his body, sucks Dean’s cock into his mouth, Dean’s been reduced to moans and whimpers. It’s never been like this, not even with Cassie; he’s never been with someone before who he can be totally honest with, unafraid, trusting. It goes to his head and he’s wild with it, hands scrabbling frantically across Sam’s shoulders, nails biting in as he arches and howls out his orgasm, embarrassingly quickly. Sam's mouth is hot wet heaven and he swallows Dean down, licking him clean like a cat before looking up his still-shivering body to meet Dean's eyes.

Sam’s smirk isn’t mocking, though, as wipes his hand across his mouth, cheeks flushed. It’s pleased, smug, delighted. Dean growls a little, still, and grabs him, pulling him up until the’re body to body again and Sam is rocking against him, the rumble of his sex sounds vibrating directly into Dean’s chest. “Wanted this,” Sam breathes against the skin of Dean’s neck. “Fuck, wanted you.”

”Yeah, me too,” Dean can finally admit. "But dude, you have GOT to shave." Sam laughs, long and loud, face tight against Dean as his whole body shakes, and Dean feels himself smile like he hasn't in years. He wraps his arms around Sam and holds on tightly as Sam circles his hips, grinding against Dean’s belly until he comes, almost silently, just a little gasp and stillness that tells Dean what’s happening.

Dean doesn’t let go for a long time. At some point, they’re going to have to talk about this, he knows, even as he cringes away from the very thought of it. They’re going to have to work things out, get some kind of system going. Draw some kinds of lines for themselves. But for the moment, Sam’s quiet and sleepy against him in the soft late afternoon light, there’s stillness all around them, and Dean lets himself just rest.

[fin]


End file.
